


Did Somebody Call For A Med Student?

by ktbl



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Jesse McCree, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Kinktober 2020, Medical Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Roleplay, Smut, Young Angela "Mercy" Ziegler, wartenberg pinwheel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26745130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktbl/pseuds/ktbl
Summary: He took another breath and let it go slowly, trying not to seem as nervous as he felt. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, Ange. I really do not want this year’s physical to go the way last year’s did.”“You almost punched him out.” Angela arched an eyebrow at him, and then that solemn expression vanished in the bright flash of her smile. “I heard the stories from Jack and Ana for weeks. He went to check that scar, and-““Hey, you try havin’ some guy twice your age start reachin’ for your ass,” Jesse said, feeling the indignation rise again. “It’s a gunshot wound. Long healed. It’s fine. Hell, Angie, you’ve already seen it!”“One day I’ll meet this Ashe, and ask her exactly what you did to get her to shoot you in the butt,” Angela smirked. “I’m sure you earned it. But until then, since you asked so nicely - yes, we can pretend I’m your doctor and giving you a physical.”--Kinktober 2020, Day 3: prompt - medical play/kink
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19
Collections: Kinktober 2020





	Did Somebody Call For A Med Student?

The door to the exam room clicked shut, and Jesse McCree felt his stomach tighten and the bottom drop out. Doctors were one of the things he hated in life, and he dreaded his annual Overwatch physical. He’d only had two, but they were damn near nightmares. He looked longingly at his boots by the door, wishing he could just snap them up and run out the door. It hadn’t helped that he’d been sitting in the impersonal antiseptic-scented room for ten minutes, waiting and getting antsy.

His eyes jerked up and took in the view of Angela Ziegler in her lab coat blocking the door. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. She looked good, long legs with a skirt and button-down shirt, glasses she didn’t wear all that often, and a stethoscope around her neck. She looked down at the datapad in her hands, and back up at him.

She almost looked like a real doctor and not like a third-year med student.

He took another breath and let it go slowly, trying not to seem as nervous as he felt. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, Ange. I _really_ do not want this year’s physical to go the way last year’s did.”

“You almost punched him out.” Angela arched an eyebrow at him, and then that solemn expression vanished in the bright flash of her smile. “I heard the stories from Jack and Ana for _weeks_. He went to check that scar, and-“

“Hey, _you_ try havin’ some guy twice your age start reachin’ for your ass,” Jesse said, feeling the indignation rise again. “It’s a gunshot wound. Long healed. It’s fine. Hell, Angie, you’ve already _seen_ it!”

“One day I’ll meet this Ashe, and ask her exactly what you did to get her to shoot you in the butt,” Angela smirked. “I’m sure you earned it. But until then, since you asked so nicely - yes, we can pretend I’m your doctor and giving you a physical.” Her eyes sparkled, and he felt his heart speed up just a little. “It’s not the usual way _friends with benefits_ works, but it seems oddly apropos in this case.”

“You sure you can’t do it yet, for real?” He sounded more pitiful than he wanted to, and she rolled her eyes.

“Jesse, I haven’t even finished my medical degree. I absolutely cannot perform your actual annual physical for you. You’re Overwatch, anyway. Jack likes to keep it in-house, so even if I _was_ a doctor, it’s possible he wouldn’t accept it.”

McCree made a rude sound. “Like if you applied, Jack wouldn’t snap you up in a heartbeat. Hell, even Gabe might.”

“I don’t know if I want to work here - and certainly not attached to Blackwatch. I want to be head of surgery somewhere. A nice hospital. Where I can build relationships, and help and heal people, and…” She trailed off and shook her head. “Forget about it, we’re not here to have me talk about my postgraduate dreams. We’re here for…” She gestured nebulously. “Well. This.”

“Yeah. ’S got a real reason behind it, even if I really do like how you fill out that skirt and you look hot as hell in that lab coat.” He grinned unrepentantly.

“As if I don’t know enough stereotypes about hot-blooded American men and their predispositions for nurses to have already anticipated that.” She winked at him. “All right. If you’ve got questions, if there’s anything you _don’t_ want me to do, tell me. The whole point is for you to get comfortable with this. Just with a more personal touch.”

“Normally I’m lookin’ forward to the end of these things, but tonight I’m definitely lookin’ forward to it.”

’S all good and if it’s a problem, I’ll speak up, Ange. Don’t worry.” He paused and winked. “Or should I say, Dr. Ziegler?”

She stifled a laugh and tipped her glasses down her nose ever so slightly. “For that, I won’t even warm up my hands, first. I expect you on your best behavior from here on out.”

“Alright. So what’s first, Doc? I’m at your command.” His mouth curved up in a half-grin as he drawled the words, and she rolled her eyes - but maybe, he thought, her cheeks went a little pink.

He recognized the change in posture as she shifted from away from play and back to professional. He recognized that crisp, businesslike voice, too. Did doctors get training in how to all sound the same? “We’ll start with the basics. I’ll need to check your heartbeat and your breathing. Make sure your heart is working as it should be, that your lungs are clear.”

“Want me to take off my shirt?”

“It’s not necessary to start, though it will be later.” She settled down on a stool and rolled herself over towards where he sat on the exam table.

“All right, then.”

She slipped the ends of the stethoscope into her ears and paused, looking across to him. “I can already tell you I’m expecting to hear lung issues from the constant smoking. I do not want to have to talk to you about lung replacements, Mr. McCree.”

“We’ll see how it sounds, eh, doc?” He arched an eyebrow and she took the stethoscope and slid it up under his shirt. It was cold, and he jumped at the touch of the cool metal disc on his skin. Her fingers slid it unerringly up along his chest, fingertips brushing across a nipple as she did. The contact was impersonal; she didn’t tease or linger, just slid the cold thing across his chest until she found what she was looking for.

“Take a deep breath in for me - yes, like that - and exhale. One more time, please.” Her voice was detached and professional. He could easily see her in a decade doing the same thing, a little older, maybe a little softer around the edges. She moved the stethoscope, brow furrowing ever so slightly. “And one more time?” He obliged her.

“So how’s it sound, doc?”

“Frustratingly fine, both heart and lungs.” Her lips bowed into a wry smile. “Everything beating along as it should, though perhaps a bit quicker than I’d like.” She pulled the now-warm end of the stethoscope from his chest, and his shirt fell back down.

“What’s it sound like?”

“Hmm? Heart, lungs?”

“Both.”

“Hmm. I oughtn’t do this - but I suppose it couldn’t hurt.” She pulled the stethoscope from her head and weighed it carefully in one hand. “Would you like to hear mine?”

“Sure, if you don’t mind. Kinda curious.”

“All right.” She unbuttoned the top two buttons of her businesslike blouse, revealing the lace trim of a bra. She proffered the stethoscope to him, and he licked his lips, sliding the ends into his ears. “You’ll want to put that onto my chest - about where you think my heart is - and listen for the heartbeat. Sounds like a lub-dub sort of noise. The lungs will sound different ways. You’re listening for normal lung sounds, which should basically sound like… well, not much. Crackles and pops, or odd sounds - that’s what we listen for.”

He may, just may, have deliberately cupped his hand over her left breast as he sought out her heartbeat, heard it quickening right in his ear as he brushed his thumb over the lace. He moved the stethoscope around, heard nothing that sounded like anything more than radio static, and then pulled it away.

“Sounds good to me.” He handed the stethoscope back and shifted slightly; the sight of her, the lab coat and the glasses and that white lace bra, was doing things to his body that shouldn’t be happening in the doctor’s office. She slung the stethoscope over her neck and buttoned one button back up, just enough to hide the trim. But he knew it was there, and he shifted again as blood headed straight to his cock instead of following the nice, normal route around his body.

“Next is a brief check of your glands. It will require touching,” she said coolly. “Palpation.” She barely waited for his nod before her warm fingers danced gracefully up his neck, pushing here and there until they cradled the bottom of his jaw, pressing gently. He could feel her breath on him, coffee laced with something else.

“Any complaints of swelling or discomfort?” Her eyes pinned him to the table and he could swear there was a smile tugging at her mouth. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, waiting for an answer.

“Not in my _neck_ , no,” he said pointedly. She arched a brow and pulled her hands away.

“Source of the complaint? We can skip straight to that if it’s pressing.”

Fuck, she sounded so damn - well, professional. Doctor-like. And as much as he liked the idea of _Angie_ getting her hands around his dick, this was Doctor Ziegler he was dealing with right now, and you didn’t go up to your doctor and ask for a hand job.

“It can wait,” he said instead, eyes on her lips. He was sure they twitched again.

“The next thing we’ll check is your skin. Bruising, cuts, moles, lumps, that sort of thing. Shirt off, please.” The doctor pushed away from him on the stool, giving him space.

“Am I takin’ off my pants now, too?”

“Not yet, unless you want to.” Her eyes twinkled, and he watched that pretty throat bob again. “Eventually I will ask you to take them off, but your shirt is fine for now. You’re doing very well, you know. I wouldn’t think you’d nearly assaulted a physician before.”

“Makes a great amount of difference between some crabby guy in his forties and _you_ ,” Jesse said before his tongue had a great amount of time to think about what it was saying.

“I’ll thank you not to talk about my respected colleague like that. One day, you too will be crabby and in your forties. Now. Shirt off please, Mr. McCree. Or do you require assistance?”

“I can do it myself,” he said, tugging the shirt off and balling it up, then tossing it casually on the chair by the door. He straightened up slightly, resting his hands on his denim-clad thighs and looking at her.

She looked him over in silence with a clinical, detached gaze, taking him in from the top of his head to the soles of his feet; he spared a longing glance for his boots near the door. Maybe it would be easiest if he just grabbed them and booked it. Her eyes lingered on the few scars on his arms, the Deadlock tattoo on his inner left arm, and the bulge in his pants.

He cleared his throat, feeling like Ana was standing over him, watching him line up a shot. “See any problems?”

“The scarring isn’t entirely unexpected, and it looks as if it’s all healed well. If you’re lucky in a few years - and especially if you keep out of trouble, or at least keep your armor on - it will fade away entirely.” She sighed, and his eyes followed the way her chest rose and fell with the exhalation. “Considering your age I’m surprised by the amount of scar tissue, frankly. You’ve been in a number of violent altercations and it’s taking its toll on you.” She moved slowly, hands spread. “I’d like to touch you, if I may?”

“All right.”

This was a different kind of touching to when they’d fucked; she really was trying to be a proper professional doctor, even though she was offering him little incentives for good behavior. Like the cleavage shot, and then the way she took her blonde hair and coiled it up in a messy bun, jamming a pen into it to hold it in place. He liked her neck, and she gave him a faintly amused look when she saw him looking at it. Her fingers skimmed over him, barely touching, brushing against the light hairs of his chest. She stood up and paused beside him, hands running over the muscles of his shoulder, along his back, prodding slightly more vigorously.

“Everything all right, Doc?”

“Fine. There’s more damage here than on your chest. I assume because people like to try to get the drop on you?”

“Yeah,” he said, feeling her hand pause over one shoulder blade. “Don’t always hear ‘em comin’.”

“Mmm. Wouldn’t have thought that was your problem.” He was almost sure there was a smile on her face, but she was playing it cool. “In light of the scarring and the predisposition to violence, I’d like to check your sensory function to ensure there is no excessive nerve damage.”

“My _what_ now?” He blinked, drawing his head back slightly.

“How well you feel things.” She stepped back to stand in front of him, positioning herself between his legs at the end of the exam table. “Pain and pleasure, hot and cold, crude and fine touch. Position sense.”

“Oh.” He swallowed. “Should I take off my pants for this?”

“I know I’ll certainly be able to finish the exam more easily. Unless you’re the sort who would like to cause trouble?” She put one hand on one of his thighs.

“No, ma’am,” he said quickly, jerking his chin away. “You’re a lot better than that other doc,” Jesse added, feeling the heat of her touch bleed through his jeans. “Had me strip down and just started pokin’.”

“I prefer a gentler touch, but we do have things we need to go through for this exam.” She tilted her head, meeting his eyes, sliding her hand up his jeans towards the bulge in his pants. Jesse swallowed once and didn’t move, and she pressed along the muscle of his thigh almost until she hit his cock. Which she did not. Pointedly.

“That’s good. The kind of professional courtesy I appreciate.”

“Now, Mr. McCree,” she said, tongue darting out and wetting her lips and _damn_ if she didn’t look like she should be stripping down for a porn shoot. But right now she was _supposed_ to be his damn doctor. “Would you like to stop this exam?”

“Not necessary. Just - you’re gettin’ a certain kind of physiological response from me.”

“Good word, demonstrating verbal facility and mental acuity. And that at least tells me that all of your reproductive organs are functioning properly at a base level. It seems it would be prudent to have you strip the rest of the way.” Angela tipped her head down ever so slightly, looking at him over the rim of her glasses. “Pants off, Mr. McCree.”

“If I don’t get ‘em off, I think _somethin’s_ gonna get hurt,” he muttered. He busied himself unhooking the thick BAMF belt buckle he insisted on wearing all the time. She backed up, and he stood up briefly, just enough to pull off his jeans. He let them drop to the floor, and she deliberately bent over, ass high in the air, to pick them up and set them with his shirt.

She wiggled the glasses on her nose, made a show of straightening the lab coat, and then walked away from him. She walked to a cupboard and bent over again. His eyes were on her ass the entire time, and he could see up that skirt of hers, and _Lord have mercy_ all she had on was a red scrap of lace that barely qualified as panties.

He stared down at his boxers and his dick, hard as a rock and announcing very clearly that _this_ was the swelling and discomfort he had complained of and it wanted attention _right now_.

She completely ignored him, pulling out a small glass jar of cottonballs and tugging one like a piece of cotton candy. It stretched out and she tugged on one end to form a tiny wisp.

“Hand, please.”

He obediently stuck out a hand. She brushed the cotton from the pad of one finger to his palm, then up the inside of his wrist. It was a light touch, barely there, and his skin shivered and goosebumps formed in the wake of the tiny piece of fluff.

“Good,” she murmured, the wisp of cotton pausing in the crook of his elbow. “Other arm, please? We’ll repeat it.”

“Why both?”

“Nerve damage is always a risk, especially with the recoil on your guns,” she said, repeating the motions. “There may be variations in sensitivity on each side of your body,” she added. She tugged the cotton ball out between her fingers, and his mind filled in how nice those hands felt on other sensitive parts.

“Trust me, doc, there’s no nerve damage.”

“I’d like to check. Be thorough, you know. Close your eyes, please?”

“Angie? Doc?”

“It’ll just be the cotton, Mr. McCree. I just want you to name the place you feel it, when you feel it.”

He wasn’t sure he liked this - his stomach twisted - but it was _Angela_ and she’d sooner kill herself than hurt someone intentionally. Her voice barely sounded like her at all, now; just some professional, detached doc.

“If you don’t want to-“

“No, I’m good, Angie. I trust you.” He closed his eyes, and was suddenly conscious of the warmth of her between his legs, how exposed he was, how careful she was not to come in contact with his boxers. Then - there, a careful brush that wasn’t her fingers, wasn’t her mouth, he knew those.

“Right shoulder.”

“Good. Let me know when you feel the cotton next.”

“Left knee.”

“And now?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he swore as the cotton brushed over his left nipple and her tongue circled his right. “Cotton’s on the left. You’re on the right.”

She made a noise of agreement and the vibration even through her tongue shot straight tohis groin. Her tongue pulled away, and he was able to breathe again. “Mental faculties are in place as well, you remembered to answer the question.”

“If any doctor tries that shit, Angie - unless it’s _you_ -“

“We’re not done yet,” her voice came from beside his head, still painfully professional, and the cotton brushed across his lips, her tongue along the shell of his ear. “Well?”

“You’re killin’ me-“ The cotton brushed across his lips again. “My mouth.” He felt it move again, skim across his abdomen, and his hands settled on her waist of their own accord, gripping the white lab coat and the warmth of her beneath it. He waited for another brush of cotton, or of her mouth, but neither came. Worry broke through him. “Am I missin’ it? You touchin’ me somewhere and I don’t feel it?”

“No, I think we’re finished.” Her warmth disappeared from in front of him. “There’s something else I’d like you to consider. Allows for a more fine, granular exam. Optional, of course.”

“Doctor recommended?” He cracked open his eyes slightly. He trusted her - she was a doctor, wasn’t gonna fuck with him in any way she didn’t think he could handle. She might drive him to distraction doing it, but.

“Depends on the patient. You might benefit from it.”

“Then I’m all ears. Or hands. Or… whatever.”

“We’ll start with your arm. Eyes closed to begin.” He felt a tiny pressure on his arm, a string of points and pricks that rolled up the inside of his forearm, just past the Deadlock tattoo. It hurt, but only a little, and in a good way, the rolling prickles almost like thorns, but never hard enough to break his skin. It was weird, but the good kind of weird, and he relaxed into it as she rolled

“Wartenberg pinwheel,” she said absentmindedly. “This is an antique. I received it as a gift when I entered medical school. When we scheduled this exam, I got it out. Used to test for nerve damage in the early twentieth century, though it was phased out over time.” The pinwheel rolled over the outside of his arm, up his shoulder, and he felt a little more pressure.

“I can feel that. So you’re takin’ an antique out for me? I feel,” _fuck_ that felt nice, like she was scratching at him, and his cock throbbed, begging for contact. The head was tight as a drumhead, and he was sure he was leaking. She had to be able to see it if she looked, there had to be a wet spot on the front of his shorts. She was supposed to be his damn _doctor_ right now, you didn’t get a hard-on for the doc. He felt more than a little bit of shame; didn’t matter who the doc was, something like that was damn near embarrassing.

“You feel?” That decidedly uninterested voice again, as if she had better things to do.

“I feel downright _flattered_ , doc,” he groaned out as the wheel slid its prickles down his chest, circling one nipple slowly. “Gettin’ out the antiques for me.”

“I felt it was appropriate.” His body arched forward of its own free will as the pressure grew, and he struggled to keep his eyes closed. The device, whatever the fuck it was, crossed over his chest and over his boxers, picking up again. She had to be varying the pressure, because none of it ever quite felt the same, but _fuck_ it was doing things to him he didn’t know were possible. He moved enough to sit on his hands, because he was going to start grabbing his cock, or her, if he didn’t. He tried to slow his breathing, but his heart pounded in his chest and his breathing seemed disinclined to slow.

“How’s the - _fuck, Angie_ , you’re gonna wreck me,” he choked out with a near-whine.

“It sounds like you’re in some distress, Mr. McCree.” The wheel paused halfway down the inside of his right thigh and then vanished suddenly. “Something you’d like to tell me?”

“No,” he ground out, opening his eyes to see the bright spikes of a steel object in her hand. “The fuck is _that_?” He stared at the object: a handle about as long as a pencil, with a wheel on one end, and off that wheel projected over a dozen tiny spikes.

“It’s the pinwheel.”

“Looks like something out of a horror movie!”

“I’ll put it away,” she said dryly, closing it up in a slim case and putting it back in her coat pocket. “Now. It sounded then as if you were in some distress, and your body has been responding for some time as if there’s a decided issue with swelling and sensitivity. Are you in some discomfort?”

“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth.

“And the source?”

“You can see it for yourself. Doctor.” _Damn it_ , she looked like she was almost enjoying this, now. Her mouth curved up in a small smile, one eyebrow rising as well.

“Perhaps I should look at it, then. Determine what the appropriate treatment would be.”

“Please.” He couldn’t help the relief as he stood up and pulled off his boxers and didn’t give a single fuck where they ended up, because Doctor Ziegler was sitting down on that rolling stool again and gliding in between his thighs. She pulled out a pair of latex gloves, tugging them onto her hands, snapping them audibly. She was gonna _touch_ him, but with the damn gloves it was going to be torture.

She was definitely looking smug now, he thought, and his eyes were on her as she rolled forward a hair more and cupped his balls in her hands. He could feel his sac tighten at the muted touch of her hand. He let out a sound low in his throat and looked at her.

“All seems to be in order. Two testicles, both properly descended, no signs of herniation.”

“Thank you kindly for restating the obvious, doc.”

“Don’t sass your medical practitioner,” she replied sharply. “Especially if you’d like this dealt with.” She squeezed ever so gently and he shuddered, and he could see more precome dripping off his cock. She reached her other gloved hand up, smearing it over the tip, and he found himself pushing against her hand, desperate for friction and grip and something, anything, that would make this better. “I think I see the problem, Mr. McCree.”

“Something you think you can help with, doc?”

“It’s not the sort of offer I’d make all my patients,” she said after a moment, latex-covered fingers brushing over his cock and making it throb even harder, “but you seem to be in a particular strait. Not a word about it to my superiors, or I’d lose my license.” Her mouth tugged in a tiny smile at that, and he let out a soft snort of agreement.

“What’s my prognosis, then?”

“It could be rather bad if this lasts for more than a couple of hours,” she said, bringing her head close to his cock. He could feel her exhale as she gently stroked him, smearing his own lubricant over him. “There could be necessary procedures to ameliorate the swelling.”

“Only been since I got in here, doc.” He was straining to keep from groaning, her lips bobbing so close to the side of his dick. “Think there’s something you can do?”

“You’re my last patient for the night,” she said after a moment of consideration. “So there are a few options available to us. I’m willing to take care of this problem for you.”

“Thank fucking God.”

“That would rather be the idea, yes.” She curled one hand snugly around his shaft, and he thrust himself forward into it, groaning. “Any preferences, Mr. McCree? I can continue this, if that’s easiest.”

“I want-“ His hips moved on their own, thrusting his cock through the ring of her fingers. It felt good, it felt _too_ damn good, and his eyes were on her cleavage and he sucked in a breath. Thinking was hard. “Leave it to the doctor’s discretion. Long as you can fix it.”

“I think I know just the thing.” Her mouth closed over the head of his cock, hot and warm and he nearly lost it then and there. She dropped the ring of her fingers to the base of his cock, squeezing just enough to hold him off. It still wasn’t a performance he was proud of, but her eyes kept looking back at him, pretty lips wrapped around his dick and those _glasses_ and the damn _white coat_ and-

She did something with her tongue and the head of his cock, tongue swiping across the bottom and the sensitive place there. His hips rocked forwards, pushing deeper her mouth. She swallowed convulsively, and the movement of her tongue and cheeks made him groan with pleasure. He tried to keep his hands off her, damn well couldn’t, and cupped the back of her head in one of his hands. He felt her other hand close on the back of his thigh, thumb gently stroking the muscle there. He couldn’t find words, tongue gone to cold lead, mouth only open for moans and groans of pleasure.

His cock jerked despite how hard he willed himself to go longer, and he let out a low, rough sound of pleasure as he came. His grunt and the sharp snaps of his hips as he buried himself in her mouth was her only warning. Her hand on his thigh helped support him as he spilled himself in her mouth. She swallowed, throat bobbing steadily, and she rolled back on the stool, swiping her thumb at the corner of her mouth.

“Feeling better?” She’d given up hope of sounding professional, and


End file.
